Broughton. A novel

Chapter I

It was night — damp, cold, starless. A woman, with strongly-marked features, sat before a clean hearth in a small two-roomed cottage. A bright fire reflected a glow on the whole interior. On one side of the solitary inmate was a strong wooden cradle, upon the rocker of which her foot was in constant motion, as she knitted without intermission and softly hummed her plaintive lullaby. A round table was on the other side of that homely figure, upon which was laid a fairly clean white cloth, a black-hasted knife and fork, mustard pot and salt-cellar, in preparation for her husband's home-coming. Under the window was a hard wooden settle, upon which a very weary man might VOL. I. B BROUGHTON. stretch his tired limbs until they ached with the hardness. A long square table on the opposite side, white with scrubbing and containing two drawers, completed the furniture in that humble abode.

Mrs. Atkins was pre-eminently tidy and me thodical. She was strong and practical, yet remark ably imaginative and tender-hearted. Of the last mentioned qualities she was quite ashamed. She trembled nervously a3 she thus sat alone in unutterable silence. She almost wished the child would wake and disturb the ominous hush. She recalled the scene outside upon which her eyes had last rested. We will describe it. In the background a low, long hill, darkly wooded, from the entrance of which to the main road was a narrow neglected lane, grass - grown, stone - be strewed, muddy, on either side of which, instead of a charming hedge, ran a low, rough, stone wall. This road had one narrow well-worn path, upon which colliers paced backwards and forwards to their dreary labour. It was a short cut to the pits on the other side of East Wood.

She had been located but a few days in this BROUGHTON. 3 solitary dwelling, and was by no means charmed by her surroundings. Her thoughts wandered back to her unmarried days, when she was in domestic service. She half regretted those days, though she would not have confessed as much for the world. Suddenly the partially-closed door creaked. She heard no step ; her heart beat convulsively, and, turning round, what was her horror to see a pair of glittering eyes. All she saw was the eyes, scarcely conscious whether they were in a head at all, or, if they were, to what species the head might belong. She screamed, and they immediately vanished. " A witch ! " she exclaimed, superstitiously. " Oh, my bonnie bairn, has it harmed thee?" And bending down, she took the sleeping infant in her arms to satisfy herself as to its condition.

And so she sat, nearer to the fire, horribly afraid, while the place seemed full of glowing eyes, and eyes only. The candle was flickering iu its socket, the fire was slowly dying. She was cold too, but she dared not move. b BROUGHTON. 4 Would John never come ? What could he be doing ? She heard a step at last, a real, human step ; alas ! it passed the door. Another hour of supernatural terror. The candle was out, the door ajar admitted a raw wind; remembering that there was some wood in the oven, she put it all on the fast-expiring embers. They flickered and broke out into a comforting blaze, just in time ; again she heard a step, a stealthy one, that brought her heart to her mouth. A youth appeared, with wild, large, dark eyes staring wildly. " Hide me, aunt — hide me ! " "Wbativer is amiss, lad?

You're always up tosummat; get out at the back. Surely them eyes came as a warning," she muttered to herself as the lad crept away. There was a dead silence, followed by a heavy step and a loud rap at the door. "Well, missis," said a gruff voice, "has any body come in here ? Where is he ? I see'd him run down this lane." "You can see for yourself, sir. There's nobody here." " He's a caution whoever he be, and skedaddled BROUGHTON 5 too sharp for me. I'd a good mind to fire on him. Night after night one or another on 'em keep me agate." " Who is it, think yer ? " " Who is it ! " exclaimed the bewildered game keeper. "That's what I want to know. I only wish as 'ow I could catch him, and we'd soon know who he is." " What has he been up to ? " " Trapping game — hares, rabbits, or birds, it's all t' same thing.

One or another are always at it. One can't mak' poor folks see as 'ow it's as much stealing to rob a lord of his game as a poor man of his pig, while th' only reason young chaps gives for poaching is that they do it for a lark." While the man stayed talking the lad was making good his escape, and Mrs. Atkins came to the conclusion that the gamekeeper was taking it pretty easy, so could not be over anxious to capture the runaway ; and as she was extremely desirous that he should not, she began telling him of the late fright she had had. " Lor' bless yer ! This house has always been BROUGHTON. 6 said to be haunted. A witch lived up t' chimley many a long year, where some old fellah had hid money he'd stole from some servant lass he'd murdered down Van-dale. But there's no knowing what truth there is in it.

Where's t' master ? " " He said he would bring up some more bits of things for t' house, but he must 'ave turned in somewhere. The Squire needn't 'ave sent us to live here. What good can we do again' gangs o' men ? It is rare as one goes by hissen ; and, besides, we're too far off the wood. They don't go the right road when they're up to mischief, but o'er walls and through hedges, you're sure." "Right enough, the scamps ! The Squire ought to let you live at Farm, but he has his good pints. He would niver turn out old Ketch because he can get no more out of him. When he dies off, as in t' natural order of things can't be long, you'll be all right." " I don't care to wait for other men's shoes," replied the woman. " I only wish he'd give us a decent place now; but there, you'll never catch BROUGHTON. 7 t' feller, whoever he may be, if you keeps on talking wi' me, though I'm sure I'm much obliged to yer."

"Well, you know, I ain't as young as I once was ; aud what chance could I have when he's got that far ? Worst on it is, there's more nor one as niver has been catched. Elio ! there's some one a-coming down t' lane now, anyways." It was John Atkins, head gardener to Squire Hoxton, of Broughton Hall, a tall, thin, delicate looking man, with good features, pale hair, and fair beard. " Weel, John, I thought as 'ow you were never coming no more." He smiled. There was an air of refinement about his pale face and well-cut features, and he spoke with much less provincialism than either his wife or the game keeper, whom he eyed with slightly evident nervous agitation. " Well, sir," he said, " what on earth has brought you to our outlandish spot ? " " Some runaway scoundrel, who'se gi'en me a chase, I can tell yer, so far, out o' t' wood.

Whither he grabbled onything or not, I can't BROUGHTON. tell. I'm afraid he heard me, and so made off. I'll wear rubber shoes. I seed him run up 'ere, and thought I seed him come in t' cottage ; but your missis says as how nobbody has been in" (she had said no such thing), "and I can't trace him no further, and finding her terrified at some unnatural appearance, I tried to explain as 'ow this 'ouse has long sin' been said to be haunted." John Atkins laughed — an uneasy laugh. He was no hero, morally or physically, but intensely respectable and most anxious to disguise all his weakness. " Silly girl ! " he said to his wife, " I thought you'd more sense." "Well, I hope you'll see it yoursen, some of these days. I wonder what it could a come to me for ? Anyhow it didn't come down t' chimley, but through that very door."

" What ? " exclaimed her husband. " I don't know, so there ! It seemed to have eyes as big as itsen." Both men laughed "Well, I never; I'll go after that, but I BROUGHTON. 9 leave yer in safe hands. Good night, John ; good night, Liza." They were old acquaintances, but no sooner had the gamekeeper disappeared than John Atkins shut the door, and whispered : " Where is he ? " " Our Joe ! I telled him to go out at t' back. Whativer has he been a doing on ? " "What he is always doing. He'll come to the gallows some of these days, and bring us all to ruin. I've been stopping with mother, she is in such a way about him. She never knows a day's peace, for fear he'll be caught red-handed, but he's got some one to back him up, as we know note about, I feel certain sure. Creep out, Liza, and see if you can make him hear thee."

That was John Atkins precisely, and fortu nately for him, he had a wife as brave as he was cowardly. If he had seen what she imagined she had seen, a cart and horse would scarcely have succeeded in dragging him out into the dark. But Liza immediately went to the back kitchen door, opened it, and said in a loud whisper : " Joe, Joe ! " BROUGHTON. There was no reply. Then she ventured across the yard, and looked over the low wall into the dark field beyond, calling still louder. Still there was no response, so she returned to the cottage. " He's made off, safe enough. You get your supper, and I will go to mother and settle her mind, or never a wink of sleep will she get this night." John Atkins obeyed, and began to eat heartily. " Jacob is fast asleep. Look after Pattie," she said, as, donning her straw bonnet, she stepped out into the gloomy night.

A momentary horror of again meeting those eyes was overcome in her eager desire to set a mother's heart at rest. On opening the gate, which prevented egress to stray animals from the common into the wood beyond, Mrs. Atkins found herself on a small piece of waste land, where the youths of the village found recreation. It was now silent enough. The woman shud dered, all around was so dark and lonesome, and the road was long and dreary. At the green, she was met by a sudden gust of wind. There BROUGHTON. 11 was always a breeze on the common, summer or winter, and this dull autumn day it had blown chilly. The woman met no one as she hurried along. The poor children of toil are only too glad to get early to bed, to rest their wearied limbs, after long hours of continuous labour. On reaching the " White Hart," she heard sounds of shouting and revelry, which struck painfully on her overstrung nerves.

Presently she reached the high wall surrounding the secluded grounds of the Hall. Above this wall, dark branches pierced into the night, while withered leaves fell one by one, and carpeted the well-worn path. With a passing thought of the wealth and luxury of the inmates of that ancient capacious building, she hurried on. Exactly opposite the massive gates of the Hall was a small provision-shop, at the door of which stood its occupant, Mrs. Earnshaw, with arms wrapped in her white apron. "Well, I never! Wherever are you off to at this time o' night ? Have t' witches scared you out ? " BROUGHTON. " Not they. I'm none quite so soft as that ; but I have a message from our John to his mother." "Well, I don't mind walkin' down wi' you a bit. It must be lonesome by yoursen. Here, Charlie, you mind t' shop while I'm away."

Charlie, a mere lad, nodded assent, and just as they started, the massive but lesser gate of the Hall was heard to bang. They both turned, and recognised the tall figure of the Squire, hurrying along on the other side of the road. "A bad man that!" said Mrs. Earnshaw, " fears neither God nor man." " Surely, he's not all bad," replied Mrs. Atkins, He was evidently going the same way as they were. They passed the picturesque lane where the trees met overhead, leading to some coal-pits. They paused by the churchyard wall, in which stood a handsome, square-towered church, and proceeded down the broad turnpike road, leading to the huge ironworks, where most of the cash was made that supported the whole neighbour hood. BROUGHTON. 13 " He's a gallivanting somewhere," said Mrs. Earnshaw, as the Squire, far ahead of them, disappeared from sight.

"After t' poachers, maybe," replied Mrs. Atkins. " They say as how your Joe has joined that lot." " Lor bless yer — they say, what won't folks say ? " returned Mrs. Atkins, prudently. " If ever he's taken, I guess your John will lose his place." " Why ? that woidd be hard, for how could John help it, whatever Joe does ? The Squire ain't that cruel." On reaching a narrow lane, branching off to workmen's cottages, Mrs. Earnshaw turned back, while Mrs. Atkins proceeded to a low thatched cottage, and stood at the closed, black-painted door, and listened. The wooden shutters were closed ; but through the crevices she could discern a light within. She looked up to the starless sky, all aglow from the flames of the numerous blast furnaces. She looked down on rows and rows of monotonous BROUGHTON. 14 dwellings beneath, and sighed.

Then she raised the latch and entered. Everything was in order in that humble dwelling. A bright fire burnt in the grate, before which an elderly man of peculiar physique sat dozing. He was a wellwashed collier. TJpou a line across the mantelpiece were suspended his pit clothes, consisting of coarse blue flannel. His figure was thin and short ; a few gray locks partially covered a long, narrow head. His eyes were remarkably close together, as if contracted by constant watchings for dangers ahead ; his nose, extremely narrow between the eyes, was of tremendous proportions towards the end ; his mouth, underneath a long lip, was wide, and marvellously ugly without being ill-tempered. A long clay pipe reposed on the top of the brightly-polished oven. A bright, comely woman, as good-looking as he was ugly, came down the ladder-like stairs, bearing a dip-candle in her hand.

" Lor, Liza, where have you come from ? " she exclaimed on seeing her daughter-in-law. BROUGHTON. 15 " Has Joe come home ? " Here the old man started up. " Joe ! who wants Joe ? He's safe in bed, isn't he, mother ? " " Yes, lass, he's all right." "That's a good job. He scared me out of my life to-night. The gamekeeper was after him." Old Bob Atkins laughed. " He is too sharp for 'em, is our Joe, he'll take some catching, he will, but I wish for goodness he'd gi'e up that game. T' Squire 'spects him, I'm sure, and it'll go bad for our John if he's found out. But he brought note home with him, not so much as a twopenny rabbit." " Oh, I dare say it's only for the lark of it young lads court danger," said their daughter-in law. "Now our John niver did, niver. He keeps to t' narrow path, he does, and it isn't his fault as 'ow Joe likes a wide 'un.

It's wonderful t' difference atween them two lads." " Thank God there is," replied Liza, for it angered her to know how this elderly couple BROUGHTON. almost preferred the scapegrace to the respectable John. But it was getting late, and, after a few remarks, Mrs. John Atkins returned to her family, meeting no one on her lonely path homewards.

Chapter II

There was another woman pacing backwards and forwards long after midnight ten years later in Broughton village — ready to wring her hands and tear her hair. A pale-faced, pale-haired, pale-eyed, and somewhat pale-souled woman, whose husband had years back been called what he really was, a "bad man." Mrs. Hoxton loved him, however; the very neglect, that agitated her more than ever she had been agitated in her life, did but strengthen the passion that nothing else had ever roused in that usually imperturbable breast. In the whole county a handsomer man could not be found ; and the beautiful casket had attracted her eye with such infatuation that when she found it contained but a worthless brilliant instead of the diamond she VOL. i. c BROUGHTON. 18 had imagined, she still admired the casket and doted on it.

Squire Hoxton cared nothing for her admiration. She had wearied him beyond endurance long before he married her — nay, he had never cared a straw for her personally ; but she was a lady of family and means. His pedigree was long enough ; but his means had dwindled and dwindled, through reckless extravagance and with lack of business capability, until ruin stared him in the face. So he married money. He had no scruples about the wrong he did a woman who was willing to give so much, because she believed he loved her. She was an insipid bore to him. Her quiet composure, her simple acquiescence to all his remarks or sug gestions, irritated him beyond expression. Her manners, her person, and even her purse, became intolerable. He almost hated her because the money was hers and not his, though he had not the slightest compunction about the spending of it for his own gratification.

"My goodness!" he ejaculated, mentally, "I've paid my price, the devil knows." Squire Hoxton never said " God knows." In BROUGHTON. 19 his heart of hearts he hoped there was no God to know, and if there were — well, if — there was an if in his mind, and by that he would live. Mrs. Hoxton believed all her parents had be lieved before her — never for a moment questioned any dogma or doctrine that in early years had been duly instilled into her mind ; but her belief was merely tacit, without mental effort of any kind. Religion was a matter about which she troubled herself very little. She went to church, she sent her servants, she gave subscriptions, she invited the clergy to dinner, occasionally she paid a visit to the schools, and, for decency's sake, the Squire went to church too ; nay, of the two, he enjoyed the change of scene most, the sight of the village worthies there assembled amused him ; he quietly criticised everybody, the old parson with his skull cap, his daughters iu the church, the clerk in his box, the farmers, the village choir in the gallery behind him, at which he turned round and gazed with most unabashed impertinence.

There were some pretty girls in the choir, and he liked to make them titter or blush — he preferred the blush. If Mrs. Hoxton noticed such proceedings she was far c BROUGHTON. 20 too much infatuated, and stood too much in fear of her good-for-nothing tyrant to remonstrate as they walked home from church together, their only child, a girl of about six years of age, for whom the Squire entertained but little love, often by their side. The child was fair like her mother, with large gray eyes and curly hair ; at the same time she had a double portion of her father's intelligence, and none of her mother's weakness. She was a curious child, and made the Squire laugh in spite of himself by her extraordinary remarks, for ever seeking out the " why of the why." He had desired a son, and he would not forgive the impertinent girl who came in the stead of an heir.

She seemed to belong to no one; for the mother, finding the child so unwelcome to her husband, cared but little for her, and ceaselessly wished she had been a boy. Unloved, uncared for by either parent, the child grew up the darling of the servants, the pet of the village. That night Mrs. Hoxton continued for hours pacing backwards and forwards, anxiously awaiting her husband's return. She had heard him BROUGHTON. 21 go out, and wondered whither he had wended his steps. She would not have made an inquiry from any but him for the world. She did not feel well — she never felt well ; life was full of ennui and sadness to her, her heart was heavy, and her head drooped languidly. Oh, if he would only come back and care for her as she cared for him. If he would only give her the smiles he bestowed on almost every other woman she would have been grateful.

At last she heard the key in the door turn slowly. It was a strong, heavy lock. She opened her bedroom door and stood on the landing with a candle. Squire Hoxton never noticed her, he struck a match and went into the dining-room. She heard him open the drawer in the sideboard containing spirits. She listened while he poked up the dying embers impatiently, then, hearing by the sound that he was irritable, she hesitated what to do next ? Should she go downstairs or return to her room ? She could not decide at first. She returned to her room for a few moments and waited ; then she stole out again and listened — all was quite silent. Perhaps he would fall asleep and BROUGHTON. 22 wake up cold and be, oh, so cross ! She crept down in the dark, reached the dining-room door, and entered. The Squire was fast asleep, a candle burnt on the mantelpiece in front of the looking glass, and by its dim light she could see that he looked white, nay, she fancied ill.

" Philip, won't you come to bed ? " she said, touching him gently on the arm. "Are you hurt ? " Philip Hoxton often pretended that he had been out in search of poachers during his nightly excursions when he had not, and his wife was always fearing some mishap from such adventures. Her touch roused him. "Confound you ! " he exclaimed, angrily. "Why can't you let me alone, creeping about like some thing uncanny ; why arn't you in bed ? " " Oh, Philip ! when you are away I feel so anxious." " So fiddlesticks ! Do you think a man six feet high, with strength of arm and nerve to wrestle with a Hercules, could not tackle these poor bandy-legged poachers ? Half-a-dozen at once I should say. But come, you are losing every sign of good looks with your absurd watchings." BROUGHTON. 23 He stretched himself, rose, faced her with a peculiar look on his face, and spoke unusually gently.

"You are not well, Clara. You must leave home for a while. I insist upon your remaining in bed to-morrow." Was he going to care for her at last ? Oh, for the fond imagination to prove a reality. " I am not ill, dear," she answered, drawing nearer. He averted a caress, but made an effort to speak soothingly. "No, not ill. I said not well — you are not well. I shall send you to the South of France till the winter is past. This beastly English climate is only fit for horses and peasants." " Will you come too ? " she inquired. " Of course I shall take you there and leave you. Probably fetch you back again, if you carry out my wishes." " Do I ever refuse to obey you ? " she asked, quietly. " Did I say you did ? " Alas, this calm obedience was in reality one of the most irritating things BROUGHTON. 24 about her to him.

"But, Clara," he added, "I may demand something of you that you would deny. If ever I do, and you are obstinate, I give you fair warning that we part.' " Oh, Philip ! how can you say anything so shocking? You don't express much love for me now; but we can never part — never, never, till death." " That depends, as I say, that depends on you." " I shall never be obstinate with you, Phihp." " That remains to be seen ; but we will say no more about it now. Come, it is long past midnight." So they went together up the dark oaken stair case, and neither of them looked in the room where lay, in a small iron bedstead, their only, unloved child. Mrs. Hoxton lay awake till broad daylight, thinking of the strange visit to the South of France, and of the request her husband was about to make, which, he seemed to anticipate, would be denied.

And she came to the inevitable conclu sion that she would deny him nothing. After that she fell asleep, soothed by her determination that they should not part through any fault of hers. BROUGHTON. 25 Squire Hoxton tossed and tumbled restlessly and, in spite of his midnight wanderings, was up at eight, when the bell sounded to summon the house hold to prayers. These the Squire never omitted, for he read with expression, and liked to hear himself. Besides, he liked to see the goodly array of servants. There was Jones the butler, as much like a parson, in his black livery and white choker, as possible. He invariably stood holding the handle of the door as the rest followed, the most con spicuous being Bolton the cook, a tall, wiry, mus cular female, with strongly-marked features, always dressed in a stuff gown, and a black instead of a white cap.

There was generally an air of in dependence and defiance in her manner, and when put out, no power on earth would induce her to join the family gathering. The only other servant worthy of note was nurse, a delicate-looking creature, with hair as white as snow, and a face remarkably youthful, though sad. Sometimes little Miss Gerrie would be down in time for the service ; but she invariably regretted having to endure the infliction, so it was not often the case. Of course she was too BROUGHTON. young to listen, and as soon as the servants had stood motionless in a row for a minute, and sat down simultaneously, her interest in the affair immediately died out. That morning Gerrie was absent, and the prayers were short. The Squire was eating his bacon when the door opened and the child appeared.

She was not remarkably timid ; her father's coldness or short rebuffs did not take much effect upon her. She went up to him and kissed him, as he turned over his papers. " I don't want another doll, pa," she began. "Who said you did?" he answered. " Well, but I don't — stupid things. I shall take my little hammer to-day and break Judy all up." " You will do no such thing, imp, because your mother will have the expense of buying another." "No, she won't. I hate dolls; they can't cry, nor talk, nor laugh, and ain't one atom of good." " Well, some little good girls love their dolls, talk to them, and cry over them like good little mothers. What makes you so different ? Give it away to Laura Jewel." BROUGHTON. 27 Laura Jewel was the youngest daughter of the Rector of Broughton, and Laura was Gerrie's bete noire.

" Oh, no, she shan't have my doll. She has got everything she wants. May I give it to Pattie Atkins ? " Pattie Atkins was the child of the gardener, who possessed very few of this world's goods. " Give it to whom you like, only never ask for another ; and don't chatter any more, but get your breakfast." This Gerrie was doing in a very listless way, for she had already been feasted with hot tea and buttered toast by the housemaid, who had waited on her mother. Her bread and milk seemed tasteless after it, and she played with it instead of eating it. Soon she jumped down from her seat and went to the long, low, mullioned window, which opened on to the lawn. The outlook was not inviting. The sky was gray, and the grass looked coldly green and wet. The trees were fast shedding their leaves, which bestrewed the gravelled paths.

Gerrie sighed. " Well, what's the matter now ? " asked her BROUGHTON. 28 father, rising from his seat, and answering her sigh with one still deeper. " It's wet," she said. "Well, we can't help that. If it were never wet, we should have no flowers or fruit, little goose. What do you want, child ? " " Some one to play with me. I would give them all my toys. Oh, papa, may Pattie come ? " "Pattie! Why Pattie? Common, dirty little brat ! Don't you understand yet that you are a lady, and Pattie is not ? " " What makes me a lady ? " asked Gerrie, thoughtfully, " because I wish I wasn't." "I make you a lady, and so does your mother. We clothe you nicely, feed you, teach you, have you kept clean; and some day you will know all about it." " I don't want to know, papa. Am I one of Pattie's betters ? because she keeps saying ' Miss ' to me, and curtseys when she first sees me, and I would rather kiss her."